There's nothing romantic or poetic about classing calves in the alley. In 6 inches of oozy, sticky, gummy mud. Buried under 8 inches of snow. One hour before the truck shows up.
There's nothing romantic or poetic about trailing cows down the highway in subzero temperatures. Leading your horse because you can't feel your feet. When you can see your breath.
It is kind of cool to watch the sun come up over the canyon rim as you trot out of camp in the morning.
There is definitely some poetry in a perfect heel loop that scoops up two feet, or a bridle horse working a cow in a gate.
I'll admit, it is romantic, holding hands with your CowBoss while driving home from the sale after selling a trailer load of your own calves.
I guess drinking Carlo Rossi out of a tin coffee cup by gaslight after a long day doing cowboy stuff is rather romantic and poetic!